


more

by decidingdolan



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Characters' POV, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Drama, Fluff, Introspection, M/M, Reflection, Retrospective, thoughts, updated daily
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-03-11 01:53:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 16,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3311213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidingdolan/pseuds/decidingdolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>words about a first year law student and a programmer when they were together. words about them when they were apart. words from the playboy, and words from the introvert. words from the poured, half-filled glass of red wine and words from the yellow knitted hat. Connor and Oliver, the words that happened. the words that were thought, kept, exchanged, rejected, given. the words that were more, that meant more. the words that were theirs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. denial

He doesn’t get to do that.

No, _Connor_ doesn’t get to do that.

Standing there in the kitchen, establishing himself as a fixture, a presence, a lingering figure in your kitchen. In your apartment, in your life.

You’d closed the door on him, opened a new one, wanted for yourself a fresh start, a new beginning—all those fucking cliches.

Asked for a clean slate, a wiped out memory of what had happened in the bar downstairs of your office building that night, those months ago.

The night when you almost didn’t go, but changed your mind in the last minute to.

The night when he stepped out of the crowd and into your life.

Connor doesn’t get to to that.

Doesn’t get to march right back in, fitted himself into the gap, the space you had reserved, made for him, and had left empty.

Because no one could fill that space the way he could.

You were washing the dishes, soap in your hands and sponge in one of them, eyes cast down at the bubbly dishes, his voice echoing in your ears.

“I had to know if—“

Damn him. Damn him and all his interest, all his sudden niceness to you. All his sudden, overwhelming, unexpected, unasked, unwanted attention. You wanted him gone. Erased. Vanished. Deleted. (Like those files on the computer, in the digital world. Right click and send him out of your system. Stuff, stash him into the Recycle Bin of Life, wherever that was, but your harddisk just seemed to forget. Flat out refused to forget.

He droned on, and you wondered why you wouldn’t, couldn’t forget him.

When it was what your body needed, when it was what your mind had advised you to do.

Connor Walsh was a fucking sanity defying virus.

He doesn’t get to do that.

Showing up here in his maroon sweater that fitted perfectly to his chest, had his physique on display (and you were dying, dying to run your hands over that chest. Get reaccquainted with that warm skin, kiss him on his lips and make your way down. Down. Down.

No.)

He doesn’t, doesn’t get—

And your hands were on his cheeks, holding on tight for dear life. Your lips sought his, tongue darted in, and he responded, like it was the next most natural thing in the world to do.

You had him up against the wall, your lips stuck onto his, tasting and wanting and waiting and losing.

You pulled away, only to draw back in for another, not-so-quick bonus. Kissed him hard and kissed him long.

Shook your hands and detached your whole self away, off of him. Hands shaking and heart drumming up a storm.

He doesn’t get to do that.

Beating you up. Causing this storm in your head where it was so peaceful before. Stirring up disruption and drugging you into enjoying this whole jumbled, tangled mess.

His eyes lit up. He’s brushing the soap (Oliver, you fucking idiot.) off the back of his neck, lips curling up.

“You kissed me.”

But you don’t get to do that, Connor Walsh.

You don’t get to walk around in life igniting people’s extinguished, goddamn put out flames.

You don’t get to make a comeback and still look as delicious, as sexy, as dignified, as good, as you do.

You don’t get to jump on people’s couch and say you’re watching _the Thornbirds_ with them, unannounced and uninvited.

You don’t get to drink red wine and have cooked dinners and watched people wash dishes in their own apartment.

You don’t get to look surprised and slightly pleased with yourself with those kissed lips. You don’t get to blame someone else for the spontaneous, impromptu act of being kissed.

You don’t get to stand there and be.

Exist as a reminder of the past. Exist as a token of the unforgiving, knotted, everchanging present.

Exist as the personification of complicated.

Exist as an intoxicating drug, the one addiction in people’s lives they could never break away from.

You’d admitted you had a drug problem, Connor.

And so, ironic enough, so had _this_ person.


	2. because

It was stupid.

It was all, in its entirety and fragments, details and moments, minutes down to the seconds, stupid.

His kiss was fresh on your lips, now warm and wet as you’d been kissed for the first time.

The stupid fucking flock of butterflies were throwing a party in the pit of your stomach, and an unrelenting heat seared right up to your chest and refused to let go.

You had your hand on the back of your neck, fingers wiping the soapy dampness from your skin. You’re looking at him, staring into him with new, clean eyes, and you couldn’t help that satisfied smirk up your lips.

Look at you, Connor Walsh. They’re going to go around labelling you a royally right fucked up mess.

“You kissed me.”

You’re saying then, sounding too smug (Christ, Walsh. Get ahold of yourself. Get ahold of your senses. Get ahold of your…sanity—wait, no, _that_ was gone. That wasn’t a thing now. That was completely nonexistent. What was here and what was now. What was standing right in the kitchen across from you, in his grey shirt and black pants, hands shaking and face stubborn, cheeks turning red before your eyes. What was there, was what’s left. Was what’s now. Was what you had as a stand-in for sanity, a reminder that life existed. That you wanted to live. That perhaps, just perhaps, amidst all this fucked up mess and suicidal thoughts and fear of prison and of a ruined future, of a disintegrating conscience and a Raskolnikov mindset. Of a pack of badly roped together thoughts, running scared, running wild. Of ominous, shadowing anxiety and a faltering, caged up heart. That amidst all this, perhaps there may be something worthwhile of staying sane, staying yourself, staying put together and staying true—to yourself, to your …conscience. Maybe.) than you should, and he’s looking back at you. Firm eyes. Raw. Hardened by feelings, and a rush, an alarm—the 911 life or death emergency kind, not the wake-up call kind—echoed in your ears. Your head felt as if it’d taken a drugged spin on a merry go-round, and your heart wanted to tear itself apart to different corners of your chest.

Here’s the thing, Walsh.

Why even feel in the first place?

Why even feel the slightest bit pleased, the slightest bit joyful (‘tis was the season to be festive, wasn’t it?) that he’d unceremoniously grabbed you, soap in his hand and frustration in his eyes, had you with your back to the wall, his lips enveloping and busying themselves making contact—God, the sweet, sweet bliss of contact. Of reconnecting, of reliving feelings, of realizing that there was a chance. That you had a chance. That what was put out, what was previously thought gone was still there—in pieces, broken, in vague forms of lurking shadows, in whispered voices that didn’t quite form words, yes, in them, but still there. Contact. Hands and skin and lips and breaths. Mingled and in close proximity and for an actual period of time, a length of time. Minutes. Seconds. A connected series of fragments, of moments. An entirety.—with yours?

Why even feel this…happy? (Simplest words were the most difficult to account for, to explain, to justify.) Absurdly happy? Like a schoolboy getting his first kiss in the locked bathroom after Algebra Class on a tedious Thursday afternoon in a locked away prep school on the edge of New Hampshire? (Because god knows you’d had kisses before, plenty of those, superfluous amount since then, and more— _more_ than just kisses (because those were _so_ PG-13), bathroom stalls and back alleys of bars. Hotel rooms and office tables. Penthouse suites and front of classrooms. But to react this way?)

Either you were (say it, you fucker. Come on. Say it.) falling (Don’t try and deny it. Just don’t. You are living a double fucking life. You, are lying on a daily basis to most people you know. You, are pulling off a second face, a second mask, a faked countenance and appearance. And you, are lying to yourself.) in (Did you have any say in all of this? Did you have any choice in all of it? Could you have stopped yourself and lean over to tap 4-months ago Connor on the shoulder and say, Hey. Enough with the Makers’ Manhattan and the cherries, go grab that other IT guy sitting at the bar, the hot blond one and not this nerdy looking dude hanging around all by himself at one of the lone tables they had set up in the room?) love or the whole murder (Sorry, refraining from the M word now. Will do. Right, brain.) incident had you suffering from heavy, critical and life-damaging PTSD.

And he’s wringing his hands and launching into this monologue about you and him and you and him and the diverging paths in life you two were supposed to lead.

That you converged. That you had brought him to you. That he had met you. That you had met him.

“You were special to me.”

And then your heart crumbled. Took steps back. Way, way, way back. He used past tense. Were, and that little word had all by itself launched a machine-gun load of bullets at your heart.

Could we ever revert back to _are_? Could we rephrase and reshape and mend and return to where we are, right here, right now, the present, the current. Present tense.

Could we ever?

Because you are—because you longed for the present. Because you wanted nothing more than to feel this. To be with him and sit on the couch and watch an eighties miniseries and eat dinner and clean up together. To have this, and live this, and lose yourself in this.

With him.

Because he is—because you wanted him to be on the same page. Because you wanted you two to arrive at the same point in time, the same converged dot of understanding you used to (that phrase even hurt to use) share, used to stand together.

Because you were special to me, Oliver.

And you still are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, Connor. 
> 
> and, you guessed it, next chapter may be from Oliver's POV. Stay tuned :) 
> 
> and see y'all tomorrow! <3


	3. paradox

He was the kind of guy you wouldn’t, in the most logical, realistic sense of the world, ever land.

The tall, good-looking, hair meticulously gelled up, scruff at his perfect, god-sculpted jawline. A shape-fitting black suit matched with a pale purple shirt.

Those eyes flirted, batting themselves to onlookers as they made their way to the bar. He slid into the dimly lit room, striding as if the floor belonged to him (and it did).

Some guys just had all the luck.

So you kept your head down. You sipped your martini, twirled the olive in the tiny glass in your palm.

Thought about the day ending, and the coding you’d left unfinished on your computer when your next-cubicle neighbour, Jason, decided to drag you down here.

(“No, I gotta finish this.”

“Come on, dude, I heard there’s this really hot guy at the bar, right this minute. Aren’t you—“

“A hot guy? You’ve just written my ending for me. Stop there and let me do some more work.”

“Oliver, seriously, dude.”

“Jason. I’ve said it before and I’m going to repeat it now. They’re not into me.”

“But how do you know?”

There’s always a “but,” that’s the most irritating part in life. Whatever there was, whatever decisions or choices there may be, whatever forks in the road existed or paths there were to take ahead, there was always that small, tiniest possibility of the unexpected unraveling. The illusion of an oasis in a desert, a shadow of hope for the temporary optimist.

I wanted to be an optimist, you remembered yourself saying. But no, no. Life refused to let you be.

Opportunities had come and gone. Guys at the bar caught eyes with those behind, or in front of you, but never you. Drinks were bought, and gifted to those next to you, by your side, but never you.

You’d stitched your lips up. Kept them close, kept them quiet. Watched them. Gliding, floating from one corner to another.

Those guys. The ones who had all the luck.

The god-given talent of charm. Effortless affability. Sex on display.

The sex that had your mouth water, your eyes wide. Your tongue thirsty for the taste of another’s, your skin burning for contact.

_Any_ sort of contact.)

And then:

“This spot taken?”

He was in front of you. Not a dream. Not a warped version of reality. Not a construction of your imagination. He was in front of you.

“What spot, uh, there’s no spot, really.”

And you bristled. You bristled and you chuckled, because that’s all you ever did. Because that’s all they would ever say. Ever ask. Ever run lines by you.

Why let disappointment grow when you could conveniently crush it before your eyes?

“Relax,” he said, waving a hand, and flashed you a smile.

And yes, as with all the other smiles you’d been granted those few lucky nights, this one served to work the complete opposite of the word on you.

A hot guy who’d never in a million years glance your way, or even take his sweet time giving you a once over as he was doing ( _Jesus Christ._ ) right now, asking you to relax. Talk about a goddamn fucking paradox.

“I—“

“How about I buy you a drink?”

The most basic, mundane question to ask. Starters. He licked his lips, eying you like you were the gazelle to his hunter.

Your martini glass was halfway through, but you’d never felt more drunk than you were that minute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC!!! 
> 
> may come back to revise, but this entire multi-chapter story is part of my project to write every day :)


	4. warmth

 

> _red-blooded (adj.): full of energy, strength, and strong emotion; vigorous, lusty_

 

* * *

 

Most people assumed you weren’t a morning person, and they’d be horribly mistaken.

Well, _partially_ mistaken.

You’d get up when you needed to, set an alarm clock at that absurd o’clock when the sun was about to rise, time it just right so your morning jog on Ben Franklin bridge coincide with the breathtaking sight of the sky changing colors and dawn breaking over Philadelphia.

Watching the sun. A break from those nerve-racking, stress-inducing law cases being dissected, broken down to the bone over piles of boxes housing documents in that haunted old Victorian-style house of Annalise’s, an escape, a getaway from the daily toll of law school classes, ( _Torts._ Michaela had a valid point. Who could ever stand _Torts_? But like hell you would ever let it show. You were better than them, the Connor Walsh they saw. You were better, special, separate. All in a class of your own, and you’d much preferred it remain that way. Isolated, exclusive.) and a rare, fleeting opportunity to be by yourself.

You weren’t one of those people who contemplated their trains of thoughts while they ran. No. Not the ones who’d let the trains crash into each other, switch rails, get off one and get on another, let words mix and thoughts collide. Leave conscience under control of the mind.

You had your sounds, your music, the earbuds plugged in as you ran. You wanted to stay focused, and rhythm and written lyrics helped you do just that.

It was fall. Dawn tended to break a little later after seven a.m., the darkness that draped over the city gradually becoming overpowered by the light, blackness breaking into intense shades of blue that turned milder and milder. Clouds, white, vague brushstrokes, revealed themselves, and silhouettes of skyscrapers and neighborhoods greeted the early birds on the bridge.

The sun made its way up. Rose. Giant ball of brightness in the sky—warmth, liveliness, a new beginning, a new day.

A start.

Another 24-hour struggle, another packed schedule to push yourself through.

You stood on the bridge, catching your breaths. The Keating Five (When did Annalise start calling you and the other four like a band, anyway? A bizarre sort of collective. A group of people who weren’t exactly united, weren’t exactly amiable towards each other, and weren’t exactly civil toward one another. More of a pack of individuals (diverse, idiosyncratic) unwittingly roped up together, each fighting for his or her own survival and victory, than spending the time they shared to form any sort of camaraderie whatsoever.) was due in court at nine that morning (another hearing for Waitlist’s girlfriend. Seriously. Did you have to be punctual for _that?)_

It was barely after seven. The sun’s just risen. You had plenty of time.

Right was the way to your place—shower and change. (You’d already laid out an outfit—the standard black shirt, that new dark blue suit jacket, and the black slacks.) Left was to the very welcoming, very familiar Apt 303.

And your cock knew before you did the choice you’d make.

 

* * *

The material of the black jogging top clung to your skin. Your hair was out of place, strayed strands falling over your forehead. Beads of sweat popped up along your skin, and you were sure the bridge of your nose was beginning to turn red.

He asked if you’d run over here, and you said yes. Answered, because there were no lies to be told that early in the morning, about this (yes, said your sister, that was the adjective for it) uncharacteristic habit of yours.

Oliver had those quirky, ridiculous glasses of his on, black tie against the backdrop of a white shirt, and a grey suit to top the outfit off. And he looked good enough to eat.

Bit more physical exercise before the day’s mental exercise. Always good for a stretch.

But no. Oliver happened to reject your very ( _very_ ) succinct (not to mention justified) proposal for early morning exercise: he had to go to work.

Of course, of course. _Don’t we all._

Liar. His office was only twenty minutes away. Wanted to show up early to, what, get the first bagel at the cafeteria?

Come on, pressing restart on the brain, engrossing the body in a whirlwind of exhilaration, of purely basic desires? Clear out the mind!

Orgasms save lives.

And _that_ was a valid fact in itself.

So you leaned an arm against the doorway, and listened to him frantically (Cute. God. How cute. …No. Wait. When did you start—never mind. It’s probably all that running you’d just done) ramble on about the _Velvet Rage_. (Your sister gave you that book before you started your undergrad, for Christ’s sake, the caring woman that she was. The only other human in the world than your mother to understand, to know you inside out. And you’d rather the number of people of that status, of that type of relationship to you, be kept to two.).

_I’m a little worried that you might be a sex addict._

Or so he said, or so he said.

 _Worried_ , how sweet. (And you were, in retrospective and introspection, the one who kept coming back to him. School and work were walls crushing down too hard on you that you didn’t spare the time to question why you’d found this particular one-night-stand addicting.) _Might be_. (That was certain. A hundred percent true.)

 _A sex addict._ (That phrase tickled your mind. Ironic. You just wanted sex. You needed sex. It was fun. It was relief. It was a release. Ask, why not? when people would ask, why?

Hey, you and me. Bodies. Take me somewhere else than reality. Get me off and get me away, treat me to your little piece of heaven. Be my sunrise in the morning, the breakfast I’d wake up for.

Doesn’t hurt, right?)

So you countered with what you’d counter—as if you weren’t (but you were) listening to him at all.

“We’re young, red-blooded American males. Let’s not make sex a bad thing.”

Emphasis on the _young_. Time was ticking. Lives were fleeting. Courts and law cases reminded you, pounded you on the head with that every day. Lives were fleeting. Lives were fragile. Lives were vulnerable, breakable.

Broken glass could be mended, but more difficult to rectify were human lives.

You felt your pulse throb when you mentioned _red-blooded_ and took steps toward him. He flinched, hands up (oh, guarding yourself from me, are you? Are _you_ , Oliver?) in defense, when you got closer, and you grinned. That toothy, complacent curl of the lips.

How fun.

And then he had to go and mention the C word.

A beat sounded in your brain for a second, before you dismissed it, turned off the switch, and made your way to him again.

It’s only been a cou—goddamnit—a _number_ of times that you showed up to his place, once when he’d slept over at yours, chats over takeout dinners and one dinner at a three-star restaurant downtown.

But that hardly classified you two as a—

Don’t even start, Walsh.

And your lips were speaking before your mind was made up, going on their usual train of thoughts…a Facebook relationship status, meeting the parent (thanks, absentee Dad), and Oliver’s face morphed into this nervous caricature of a face that you wanted to capture in your mind for the rest of the day.

(To view during this upcoming dreary court session, more than anything)

He’s freaking out, index finger at the ready, sentences broken down into almost incoherent stutters, and delight—some sort of warmth, a strange, inviting coziness—started pumping through you.

“I—I know that—that we’re not—“

And your eyes were glued to him. Even gave a little nod, to help him along in this impromptu scene.

You smiled when he was about to end it, way too soon, your teeth bared, your lips stretched wide.

 _There’s my morning made. There’s my heat for the day, my warmth._ He’d brought a little sunshine into the start of your day, the sunrise after the actual sunrise.

And you couldn’t help thinking, when your lips crushed down onto his, that this was _exactly_ what early mornings were made for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh I was so excited about writing this! Hope you've enjoyed reading it, m'dears :)
> 
> Also, this was part of the #Coliver Valentines' day prompt: sun.


	5. actually

You swore you weren’t crying when the door slammed shut.

A lump was stuck in your throat, maybe. That irritating burn under your eyes. Your chest hurt, and you wanted to believe it was not your heart.

You’d shut the door on him, pushed him away with the bundle of clothes in his arms, steered him far off from you, and that’d be the last, you promised yourself, the last contact you’d ever have with him again.

You’d shut the door on him, watched him disappear, turned your ears silent to his spilling protests.

“Don’t make this a bigger deal than it actually is.”

But it was.

That was embarrassing to admit. It _was_ a big deal, and he would never know (he deserved not to know).

What was it worth to him, anyway?

Nothing. He was nothing, you kept telling yourself that. He was the nothing who came into your life, made his big splash with those Makers Manhattan, the nothing who wrapped himself around you, body and heart and mind, the nothing who shredded his clothes before your eyes and dropped down on his knees that first night you two met. The nothing who kissed you and kissed you until you’d forgotten how long it had been. The nothing who’d slammed into you, hot breaths and heavy moans, the one who’d had you fallen in love with sex—the act of it, the whole debauchery, hedonistic pleasures of it that you’d left tossed in a dark corner of your conscience—over again.

Guys like him.

Read his eyes, follow his wink, and you’d be undressed, three seconds flat, under that stare.

Bare. Exposed. More than naked, more than vulnerable in front of him. He’d had you, and he knew. He’d lured you in, and you’d bitten.

You’d shaken your head at him that evening. Had that firm grasp on your conscience that he couldn’t just buy you with a package of take-out dinner. But starting out was sweet, deceptive, and refusal worked on you for positively five seconds.

Weak, Oliver.

You weak, desperate soul.

How could you have given in?

But giving in was easier than giving up, that was the point. Abstaining from him, divorcing yourself from this idea of having him around—that, was going to be a challenge.

Guys like him weren’t going to last, you should have known that. Guys like him weren’t going to circle around you forever, bring you gifts, make reservations for two at fancy restaurants, and say, albeit with a reluctant voice, that you were boyfriends.

Guys like him weren’t meant to be with guys like you.

And all you had, all you’d gotten in return from him tonight, were those three little words.

“I like you, actually.”

_I like you._

Christ, Connor. Time to be an asshole.

‘Like,’ didn’t involve him pounding onto you the second he’d gotten in your room, hands tearing your clothes apart. ‘Like,’ didn’t involve him casually staying over after sex in those black undershirt and short shorts that brought out his biceps for your viewing pleasure, coming around to lean against your doorframe, arms crossed.

That guilty puppy look in his eyes.

‘Like.’

The word was too light in meaning in your ears, in your mind.

Whatever the word was supposed to mean for him, from his point of view you’d won yourself the chance not to learn.

Save the heartache.

You were friends. He liked you. (No, he liked you, _actually_.) He was out, you’d stayed in. He was out, and you were gone.

You wished you could be.

(Gone, that is.)

Because he liked you, and you’d liked him. 

He liked you, and you more than liked him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! Made it!
> 
> Guess who's dropping by tomorrow - Paxton! :)


	6. were(n't)

It wasn't the first time you'd been kicked out of someone's apartment.

Talk about déjà vu.

Your hair was a mess, your blood pulsing through your veins, almost a rhythm in time with those beats in your head going, "Not fucking fair. Not. Fucking. Fair. Not. Fucking. Fair." Your clothes were a bundle in your arms. The air felt cold against your bare skin. The short shorts barely covered your legs and left little for the imagination (not that the person you'd put the short shorts on for needed to employ any imagination. You were hoping, post-beer, pre-kiss, to nudge those legs spread wide with your knee and turn that imagination into reality.)

A tap of the touchscreen, few seconds of the recording playing, and that nonexistent imagination relinquished its opportunity at coming into material form, or even becoming reality at all.

"I just hooked up with one of the interns to make sure."

It meant nothing, Oliver. When would you ever understand?

 _He_ meant nothing. He was nothing. He, eager lips and curious hands, rough caresses and heated breaths. Impressive cock and overwhelming energy. On the floor and against the wall. The moans that drove you over, the orgasming face that pushed you to give more.

What meant something. What was something. What wasn't just something- more than sex and close to like, less than love and far from indifference. What was a thing. What was- to you, your cock, your heart, your mind, your life- was him.

Was you, Oliver.

It was you.

Now, it's not some cliche moment in a much celebrated, talked about film of the century that begged for a hashtag of its own. Not an epic, mind blowing, life changing, "it's always been you," that cemented relationships and mended broken hearts.

_E. None of the above._

But feelings existed. Were dormant. Were apparent. Were...there.

"I do...whatever I want."

You'd told the dead guy- a shooting star, Marren's fallen protege. You fucked him, he was gone. You fucked him, and he was dead. A pile of stardust. A corpse. A splattering of brains, blood, organs. He'd always be the dead guy to you.- and closed the door of the copy room behind you, stepping into his trap.

(Which also happened to be yours.)

I do... whatever I want...whomever I want, you said.

Not the first time you'd wished you'd told a lie.

(You wished it wasn't a lie.)

It was Wednesday night. It was a Wednesday night, and you'd be at Oliver's place, buried in crinkled lukewarm sheets and a pile of fluffed-up pillows, muttering, mid-yawn, crumbled up voice, "No. C'mere. C'mon, Ollie. Not yet. Come," your hand reaching out blind, in search for skin.

He'd shake his head—you'd peeked at him once, an eye opened, a shoulder raised—and push your hand away, laying down beside you from his half-sitting position on the bed. "Go to sleep, Connor," you'd hear him shush you, mild amusement in his tone. "That's enough for tonight."

Not to say it happened every Wednesday night. You'd tried. Made efforts. Attempts. (And more than often had Annalise and her impossible cases come between you two- sandwich themselves between the hours of the only night in the week you two shared). Wednesdays were your day.

Yours. And Oliver's.

He'd get off work early (except when he's got those enterprise projects you'd doze off at whenever he invoked the word, "Refactoring," to start elaborating on his part of the work. Well, that and some other words straight out of Computer Science school and that nerd brain of his that you couldn't seem to delve deep enough into.) and come in to cook dinner (you’d help, sometimes. Key word being ‘some’ of the time.)

You’d swing in, folders in your arms, and crash down on the couch. Spill to him the day’s happenings and the night’s anticipations. The items checked off your mental to-do list and the items rewritten, updated, redacted (for obvious and secret reasons). The Asher one-liners and the Michaela whine-of-the-day. The Wes’s oversaturated moment with his Juliet and the Laurel cold-stare.

He’d listen, spatula in his palm and pan gripped in his other hand, take you in, and nod. Tell you bits of his day. Coffee machine in the office and a tea bag that went missing. Long lines at the cafeteria and a chat program with a malfunctioning emoticon feature.

It wasn’t something that you’d gotten used to. It wasn’t something that was meant to be permanent, a fixture. It wasn’t something to be incorporated into your routine, your lifestyle. It just wasn’t.

But you’d found yourself there more than you should, more than you would think you’d end up sprawled face down on Annalise’s floor, half-dead with caffeine overload and a document’s torn page off a folder splashed across your face.

He was a place. He was somewhere you could come to. And you did.

So when you stepped closer to Paxton, belt off and pants and boxers down, you were glad (looking back, you still had to say you _were_ ) you’d broken out of the routine, that this was a Wednesday night, that this was a normal Wednesday night.

Because you two weren’t together. Because you two weren’t exclusive. You weren’t all me and you and his and him and holding hands in public and pecks on the cheek at eight in the morning before work.

You were coffee at odd hours at night. Phone calls when you couldn’t fall asleep. Takeout Chinese on the couch and a marathon of an oldies series with glasses of red wine.

You were conversations that circled and ended in itself. Codes and legal terms that never quite met. Ravenous, greedy sex on the rug in his bedroom, and taking turns watching each other wake up with bedheads, the kinds acquaintances wouldn’t caught you two dead in.

You were those, and you were them. You were those, and only, exclusively, limited to those.

The one _exclusive_ you’d draw a line under, circle the word in a blatant red color, you supposed.

But he begged to differ.

To him, you were probably intimate. To him, you’d leaned on him far too much for far too long. To him, you’d come crashing in and crashing down. To him, you’d gotten too comfortable, too acclimated to his place, his skin, his body, his cock.

To him, you’d become too close.

Slipping from the precipice of the word ‘like,’ into the limbo, the in-between territory you couldn’t quite place your finger on.

“Get out,” were the last words you heard from him. Get out. So it ended here. Terminated where you failed to convince him you were still at “like.”

It wasn’t enough, and you were aware.

It wasn’t enough, but you wanted to keep on telling him the lie.

It wasn’t enough, and now it was never going to be.

Forget it.

You’d rather Wednesday nights mean nothing than something. That’s how it was supposed to work.

Wasn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest, most sincere apologies. something happened yesterday, but I'm back now! Angst in full mode. T_T
> 
> Hope you've enjoyed it, darlings <3
> 
> xx


	7. thin line

No one had given you flowers before, and you’d found Brendan’s story utterly absurd.

Connor Walsh, customary armour of black suit on, carrying a bouquet of flowers.

A package of takeout containers you could imagine, but an entire bouquet of flowers—cream-colored wrapping paper, pale green ribbon, and white roses nestled in an arranged fashion, aimed to please?

Come on.

Connor wasn't romantic, that you knew.

Connor was the occasional full glass of vodka you'd pour yourself, unmixed, untainted—pure, fiery drunkenness—out of the crystal clear bottle you'd pick up from the store on a lone Friday night. He was the drink the cashier had you paused and carded—wearing a suit and tie and still looking like you were fresh out of grad school (Under 25. Please.)—forcing you to think twice about the impromptu (not so, actually, not so) decision to drown yourself in numbness for a matter of evening hours and late into morning. He was the laughs you’d let out, lips stretched from one edge of your face to another. He was that hurling, shaky, stumbling feeling you’d have in your stomach that you were either near throwing yourself off the proverbial, mental cliff of sanity or of throwing up the brewed liquid you'd (of course you had, because of course you had) wasted a fraction of your hourly salary for (but you didn't. Throw up. Because, somehow, underneath all that, consciousness warned you it'd be too much work to clean up the post-drunk mess.)

He was temporary pleasure, the self-indulgent drinks you had to dismiss confrontation with reality (Status: Single. Loans: In the process of being paid off. Life: Why care about Status, if at all. Friends: The same group. Glasses: Pretty much still there.). The blacked-out roller coaster ride you chose to go on when the park was already closed and the operator would expected anyone but you. He was transient relief - short-lived. Intense, like a hard-hitting shot of tequila that had you take an involuntary step backward in front of the bartender. Overwhelming, like a train crashing down on you, dismissive of the rails.

He was the headache you'd wake up in the morning with, the lingering throbbing in the back of your head, the pillow soft and dawn's early lights too bright, too cheery, the alarm clock too cruel and in tune with seconds of regret.

(What was done was done.

....bullshit, Oliver. You're too self-conscious for that.)

You'd cleanse yourself, drink water - sleep - pull the blankets over you and seclude yourself from time - but he'd appear. Exist.

Try to worm his way back.

And you'd let the water run. Stood your ground in the kitchen, sponge in your hand and soap in your hair. Washing dishes.

You heard his voice. Asking for you.

_A guy who used to live here._

You'd told Brendan about him. Words came spilling out when you couldn't stuff them back down (that restricted area with barbed-wire fence in the fifth corner of your heart you'd jumped into yourself), and he'd hugged you, thumb running over the back of your left palm.

 _Forget about him,_ he whispered close to your ear. _Not exclusive, and he's sleeping here. Wednesday nights. Ollie, you're - I don't know how you've put up with this guy._

 _Because I'm hopeless._ You were ashamed of the squeak that was your voice, muffled through a stuffed nose and the hands covering your face. Stared back at him through the gaps between your fingers and heaved, shoulders rising up and down.

_I'm a sucker for him. Was. I thought -_

_I've done this to myself._

And hands, twice the size of yours, brushed rough strokes across your back.

 _No, you didn't_ , he was saying.

_I'll make sure he stays away, okay?_

_Now forget about him._

A command, an executable, a line of code, a script to set up a server or a web page—those you could whip up in no time - and this, one sentence, plain English, four simple words - teetered on the edge of impossible.

 _Now.-_ Ask, and you'd answer that it was 11.02pm on Friday, November 14th, but to pinpoint where the actual "current," time was, from your perspective - you couldn't. The "current," was fluid, flexible, fragile, the "now," fluctuating with your heartbeats and the sense of belonging to a particular time - seconds and minutes and hours, down to fragments and details, a moment, an entirety - was lost on you when you slammed the door in his face. Time paused, and the "now" (Now. Now. Now. Now.) drumming in your skull was the now you came to locate yourself, during various intervals of time. Now was the time to fish out his briefs from under your bed. Now was the time to throw away that business card from the fancy restaurant you had your first dinner with him (because you were cheesy like that. You'd picked up a card from a basket close to the restaurant's exit on your way out. He'd raised an eyebrow - that signature eyebrow raise of his that no one could replicate.- and that was that.) Now was the time to stop ordering from that Chinese takeout place he was all too fond of. Now was the time.

White roses. So Connor thought he was funny. He could have dropped a bouquet of yellow at the doorstep, leave it in the hallway, and you'd take the whole bunch and drop it in a vase. Leave it there. Look at it, even. No hard feelings, no more struggling with those four words. And he brought you a white bunch. White roses. Yellow, and he'd be asking for forgiveness, underline the friendship between you two. White, and he was asking for the kind of forgiveness you'd spent all this time running away from. Reconciliation. I'm back, I'm standing at your door, begging with my bouquet of white roses for you to forgive me. You'd waited for me (because he'd assumed you would.), and I'm here, asking you to take me back and take me in. I've brought you roses, white. Because I'd figured you were more than sex and that I do, actually, by some twisted stroke of fate, /actually/ have taken a liking to you that's a fair amount more tangible to me than a disposable one-night-stand.

White, but I don't yet think we're exclusive enough to be red.

White, and I wanted to be with you and crash at your place after a long day of work and blow off steam.

White, and I'd presumed this was an intimacy without a price tag. Or emotional baggage.

This was a situation far from white. You two were an explosion of colors against a paintball board, a Pollock painting with the blacks and whites clashed in together, a horrid mess. He was red and orange and yellow, and you were blue and green and  violet. Grey, he should have gone with grey roses. Ashen, crumbling grey.

Burnt flowers, petals transformed to powder.

More than suited to the occasion.

But white or red or grey or black, he'd guessed wrong to bring you flowers.

Your notion of 'now' was shaky, true, but there existed such a phrase as "too late."

He'd taken the wrong steps, chosen the wrong words, tripped, and tried balancing himself on the thin line between favorable fuck-buddy and an intolerable asshole (fell into the latter category, but you'd never put up with a fuck-buddy, as he was proposing himself to be. Or, god forbid, friends with benefits.)

Couldn't say "Sorry" for you, Connor. You don't deserve it.

Flowers weren't necessary. A validation of our relationship's (there was no relationship to put a word to, to define a word of) nonexistence would have suited just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4 days! Feels like it's been forever! How was everyone's Valentine's/long weekend? Hope you've had fun :). Mine was not unlike Oliver's...but I do not have a Connor, if you were wondering, that is. Vodka all the way.
> 
> Fluff next chapter, I promise. So much angst these days.


	8. steam

It could be a challenge to pinpoint the exact moment you fell for someone.

When your compass’s north was reset, and you realized there was a name to the otherwise wiped out sign leading down that unknown path in the dark.

You’re staring at him across the table, over the heated steams of your ramen bowls (yours the _Spicy Tantan_ and his the _Tonkotsu Black_ ). He’s got chopsticks and a spoon in his hand, busy with the thin noodles in front of him. His head was down, hair a tiny bit mussed (the evening was young. Friday was here. Not that Annalise minded what day of the week it was when you’re working for her.), his plain black tie loosened. He had your favorite (When did you have a favorite with him? Favorite coat. Favorite tie. Favorite smile. Favorite mug—to use, at his place. Favorites. Before long, you’d get yourself a favorite man. Because. Who were you spending your Friday night with again, anyway?) crisp, white shirt on, the one that smoothed under your splayed out hands and made unbuttonning an facile task (that bit was extra), and you could just sit here.

The steam from the bowl was dying, the noodle and that soup getting cold, inches from your hands. You’d had them flat out on the table, either side of the bowl, the chopsticks and the spoon on its right.

_You haven’t touched your food._

He raised his head all of a sudden, chopsticks aimed at your chest, and you blinked. He’d gotten LASIK surgery a few weeks ago, and meeting his eyes directly—those molten chocolate browns—had been killing you inside since then.

(Because how could you stay calm when tenderness was staring back at you in the face? Tenderness, really, Walsh.

You’d turned words, the way you chose to describe, sketch out Oliver in your mind, times with him that had become moments—small drops of happenings—than ticks of the clock. You’d scratched out, redrawn, and broken barriers you’d put up for yourself with him, and those eyes could unwrap you, shell and masks, seconds flat.

This, said your head, could not be happening.

Yes, said your heart.)

 _Not hungry_ , you shook your head. He’d texted, asked if you’d be interested in ramen after class (one of those cravings, you supposed), and you’d slipped out early from your last class to meet him in front of the place.

Middle of October. Weather was getting chilly. Jackets, coats, and scarves were in place. He was a bundle of black in his double-breasted, and you simply (but coolly) sporting your high-collared. The line was long, and you two were the third couple to start waiting. The hostess took his name and went inside. The restaurant was small but cramped, only the space of one townhouse downtown, housing less than ten couples at a time.

You had your hands in your coat pockets. He rubbed his together and snuggled up close to you. And you had let him. You could just stand there.

_Are you just here because of me?_

He popped another question, fishing out a bamboo stick with his chopsticks, and you shrugged.

 _I love ramen_ , you said, _Just didn’t feel like it today._

 _Could’ve said no_ , he pouted, and your lips felt dry, almost dying to kiss that frown away.

_But you asked._

_But—_

And you leaned over, finger brushed the skin above his upper lip in one long, deliberate motion. He paused, chopsticks in his grip.

_You got a little soup there._

He’s got this faint smile on his lips when you drew your hand back onto your lap. You coughed, picked up your own chopsticks and spoon.

And he’s the one shaking his head this time, chopsticks at the ready and slurping down the soup as if your ‘what’ was the most trivial.

So Connor Walsh couldn’t be romantic.

So that was the predetermined notion, the current impression rooted from those first impressions since the first night you two shared. The registered belief, that stereotype that a guy like you— _this_ guy—couldn’t do romance. Couldn’t take it slow.

You wouldn’t know if you could, to be honest, but with Oliver, quirky smile on his lips and his eyes undressing you from across the table, you _might_ just be willing to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RAMENNNN <3
> 
> ah.


	9. want

He’s making fun of you for clicking on the replay button.

“It’s been, how many times, Oliver….like…five?”

_Like_. How old did Connor think he was, five?

You clicked on the button again, unfazed, and the clip rolled on (for the sixth time, excuse you), the YouTube clip enlarged to Theater Mode and enhanced to 1080p resolution. He could have laughed and teased you for the rest of the night, but this was what you’d set your mind to stick with.

Please. It dawned on you the man was a winner the second you (and you would always, always blame yourself for choosing to press that play button for the first time.) started the clip and he hit the first note—sha- _boom_.

Drums, and your heart lost itself to the layers in that voice.

It was Saturday night, one of those evenings in early November when snow had started its turn, and it was an unspoken mutual agreement between the two of you that going out wasn’t an option to bring up.

You’d started up your laptop when he left to get takeouts from the Italian restaurant at the corner of the street, and found yourself humming along to a particular clip. You were on your sofa, the laptop on the desk in front of you, a pillow hugged tight to your chest the minute he came through the door.

He placed the plastic bags on the counter, his eyebrows raised, lips upturned and head cocked to a side. He’d shrugged off his coat at the hanger, and stepped toward the sofa, arms crossed at his chest.

“I see you got started without me.”

And, okay. That smirk was precious, and priceless on his face. Connor being Connor, of course, was almost never without his signature smirk, the permanent fixture on his lips. Smirks that were exclusively his—that only he could pull off and still looked (goddamnit, goddamn him, goddamn perfect height, hot, slick first year lawyer students with goddamn smart mouths and talented tongues) charming. Like an asshole. A very charming, alluring asshole.

(Persistent urges to slap the smirk from his lips tended to melt into pressing your lips to his to reshape the smirk….and gain access to other areas of him.)

You let go of the pillow, had it fall to your lap, both hands held up high at either side of you.

“It’s not what you think, Con.”

Jumping to the most plausible, simplest solutions tonight (or all nights?) weren’t we, Connor? Exhibited your state of mind. Too bad.

And he’s on top of you before you heard his reply, legs straddling your form and arms around your waist, lips nipping on your right collarbone.

You were chuckling, head tilted back to grant him access, hand already picking at random strands of his hair.

“Wait a minute.” His voice was muffled, his lips lingering at your skin. “You weren’t—is that some guy… _singing_?”

“Celine Dion,” you answered, finger lifting his chin up for a quick kiss on the lips.

He smiled, “Voice’s changed a lot, hasn’t she?”

(Again with the charming asshole attitude. God _damn_.)

“Yup,” you said, nonchalant, leaning down to graze your lips at the skin beneath his chin. The low, soft moan from his lips was the sweetest melody you’d heard that night. “It’s Jeremy Jordan.”

He perked up then, sparing the laptop screen—which had now turned black due to its energy-savings function—a quick glance.

“Who?”

His eyes were on you when he whipped his head back (thank you, empty laptop screen. Distractions were definitely not needed, nor preferred tonight.).

“Jeremy,” your lips nibbled their way, chin to cheekbone (those cheekbones of his. Talk about good karma and not being able to believe your luck in real life, not within the pages of a play.), and he shuddered against you, fingers gripped on your back.

“Jordan.” One long lick up his ear—the most fatal spot, the point of attack, the serious foreplay weapon in your armory—and it was magic. His frame seized up with an audible gasp, one hand left your back and grabbed tight on a chunk of your hair without warning, as if to hold on.

Deep breaths.

“That’s not how this is supposed to work,” he kissed your shoulder, hand sliding down to push back your white t-shirt’s collar for more skin.

“How _what_ is supposed to work?” Your hands gripped the hem of your t-shirt, and started to pull it over your head without delay. He backed off, waiting, eyes weighted with want.

(Those eyes. As if you’d ever believed, or been convinced, that someone, one day, one night, would ever stare back at you like that. Seduced. Attracted. Intoxicated. Wanting you. Needing you. Having to have you.

Whisper you’re a fool to your ear right this second, and you’d turn deaf to warnings.

He was here, he was now, and he was going to be yours again, as he had been nights before.)

You leaned back on the sofa, head hitting the wall behind, when his lips brushed the skin at your chest.

Moans again, this time from your lips, your hands around his neck now, holding him tighter to you.

“You saying some other guy’s name.” Your turn to gasp—his lips on your nipple, circling, licking. “Shouldn’t turn me on.”

“But his voice,” you retorted, voice (and strength of argument) slightly weakened by his lips on you (Oh. God. Yes. More of that. _Yes._ ) “This guy is insane.”

He lifted his eyes up at yours, lips wet. “Really,” he asked, voice tuned to that playful taunting tone, “You’ve got me on top of you, and you’re still praising this guy.”

You reached an arm around him, and (after keying in your password on the lockscreen) pressed play on the YouTube clip.

“Singing amps up your sexiness,” you stated, kissing the bridge of his nose, “It’s a scientifically proven fact.”

From the research desk of one Oliver Hampton. Some guys, Jeremy a prime example, were no Connor Walsh. Sure, they were blessed with winning smiles and eyes that drew you in, but in terms of perfectly sculpted, aesthetically pleasing features, they were less close to Connor. But giving them a chance to open their mouths and sing their heart out, arms spread wide and eyes drowning you in the music, voice gripping the song’s notes and melody with infectious energy - was the equivalent of a direct subconscious invasion.

And Jordan’s showmanship was a crowd-pleaser.

Those eyes, that twinkle, the way he caressed his mic and opened and closed his palms. His eyebrows raising and drooping in sync with his voice. Him throwing his head back all too frequently to reveal that delectable neck, that piece of skin you wanted to kiss.

“Well, then,” declared Connor from your lap.

“ _It’s getting late_ ,” he hummed, taking his own shirt off and throwing it to the floor, “ _And while I wait_ , _my poor heart aches on._ ”

A nod to the screen. Still playing.

(Whatever, Connor.)

His hands were on your shoulders, pushing you down to the sofa. He climbed on as your head hit the fabric, his legs wrapped around you.

“ _Why keep the brakes on_ ,” his hand trailed down your chest, stopping at your waistline. Lips planted themselves at the skin there, and your hips buckled up to his.

“ _Let’s misbehave_.”

“Cole Porter,” you breathed, fingers tiptoeing on the back of his neck, “How did you know?”

You got a mere chuckle and a complacent look in his eyes in reply.

“I just do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I religiously believe in the aforementioned fact.
> 
> Am also slightly obsessed with Jeremy Jordan's voice (but that you /can/ probably already tell), unashamedly enough.
> 
> Kudos to you if you got the reference :)
> 
> (this got so much longer than I thought it'd be initially haha.)


	10. hands

“Did you know,” he said, as he stepped into the room, grocery bag in his arms, “That cookies are the fourth most addictive food, below pizza, chocolate, and chips?”

So you were sitting in front of the TV at your place, a box of mint-chocolate Girl Scout cookies (shut up, they were in season) propped up on your lap, two more boxes on the table in front of you, ready for further, ahem, consumption (best way to go. Let the world, and the record, hold no other.), and he had to stick a needle in your bubble.

“Oliver, please.”

Your mouth may be full of the goodness that was flour, sugar, chocolate, and a whole lot of addictive high, but you were only chomping on for the sake of it. The TV remained silent and shut off, and you’d only gone through one-fourth of a box.

He put the brown bag on the kitchen counter top then (the kitchen was steps away from the living room, not too unlike his place), and came over to sit beside you on the sofa.

“No—it can’t be,” he’s shaking his head, eyes scanning you, head to toe (the stay-at-home, post first-phase-of-sex and pre-frequent-dinner-dates sort of once over).

(You had on the worn, grey tee with the Middleton College logo you’d won by chance at a random, forgettable contest during orientation week and black sweatpants, hardly worth a once-over, even that kind.

Your hair was ungelled, strands seeming to have lives of its own. Scruff out of control and ungroomed (that scruff, that so-called mess you strutted around with? That required a considerable amount of time in front of the mirror, no kidding). There were bags under your eyes, the kind that would take a few days for even the best eyecream to salvage, and your lips might have been slightly dry. (So you forgot to hydrate sometimes. It happened. Usually. A glass a day. Two. When you weren’t as busy.))

He’d gone out.

It was middle of October, and he was cute, in that quickly-put-together, let-me-throw-an-outfit-on way of his. Favorite tight-fitting white tee, grey hoodie, and skinny jeans, his hair that perfect tangled disarray as a result of the hoodie.

“Can’t be what?” you asked, and stuffed another cookie into your mouth. Broke the silence with your chewing.

(Chomp. Chomp.)

“You’re not…eating your feelings, are you?”

At that, you hugged the box tight to your chest, lips turned upside down. “No,” you replied, firm, “I’m just—I really can’t stop. These cookies are great. They’re too good.”

But he grabbed the box (one hand. Palm right over the flap of the box. Rude.) and placed it on the table, along with its two unopened friends.

“Connor, it’s okay.” His hand was on your knee, caressing, slow. Gentle. And the word popped in your head—loud, colorful, like one of those action words in the comic books—INTIMACY. (Because what the hell were you getting yourself into, Walsh? This was never part of the plan.

Worry was never part of the plan.

Over-thinking was never part of the plan.

Combining worry, over-thinking, and law school due dates had always been part of the plan.

It’s you that weren’t able to cope with them all.)

(For the record, involving him was definitely not part of any plan.

Not ‘the’ plan.

But of any plan at all.

_Honestly, involving someone in your life, opening that door and inviting someone else, other than your sister and your mother, in?_

_Oliver, what have you done?_ )

“I—“

He traced a finger at your jawline, and you rolled your eyes.

“You don’t—need to know what it is,” you said, hands splayed on your knees, one on top of his (of course). “Life’s fucked up. It’s normal. I’m breathing. I’m fine.”

He squeezed your hand, and warmth pooled in your palm. Strange.

“You’re not fine,” he stated, too matter-of-fact for your ears, “This isn’t normal, and I’m here about the whole,” he was doing air quotes ( _for fuck’s sake_ , Oliver.) “’fucked up’ thing, I can listen—

—I _will_ listen.”

_Even more fucked up, Oliver._

_Life’s even more fucked up_ —words were running across the projector screen in your mind, white colored fonts against a black background (a noir kind of breakdown, that’s right. In style.)— _now that you’d go around saying shit like that._

_Now that you’d said you would listen._

_Because it was Wednesday night and it was the start of many Wednesday nights’ to come. And you’d said you would listen._

_You’d said you would. And you did. Sitting there. Strolling around the room—your place, my place. Standing, chopping onions or making tea, or doing whatever it was you do._

_You did listen._

_Rambles, and nonsense and frustrations and rants and panicked words. Words about losses, missed opportunities, failed expectations, and mundane tragedies._

(Heroes fall everyday, and you were nothing but a human walking the grounds of law school. Which meant, without further ado or elaboration needed, that failure was common and normal, and, in your case, referred to the specific failure of others—especially within the Keating Five—winning the trophy or getting their share of the spotlight in Annalise’s or other professors’ classes, the spotlight only you deserved.)

_You did listen._

_Until you pushed me out—when I’d opened the door to me for you—and refused to listen anymore._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eek. Was going for fluff. Did not know it was going to end in melancholy.
> 
> Yes, those girl scout cookies are definite references to, ahem, one Jack Ryan Falahee's addiction of cookies. (His middle name! Pretty! I know.)
> 
> (for last chapter's reference, I might have gone in a little too deep haha. Was watching an interview clip of Conrad, and he mentioned that Cole Porter's a favorite to listen to :D) 
> 
> ANYWAY. FINGERS CROSSED FOR THE FINALE. GOD. I HOPE NOTHING BAD (sigh) IS GONNA HAPPEN.
> 
> I will be livetweeting (hopefully) at my twitter - @a_intoxicated :)


	11. drown

They say the universe's oldest stars were late-bloomers.

And so, you felt, was your love for one Connor Walsh.

Love - one word. Stark, naked, bare. Said and slipped from your lips, 3am (at least, that's what the most reliable source indicated the time to be - that glaring red light of the alarm clock at the bedside table) and your brain halfway to crashing. The drunken mind was foggy, devoid of preliminaries, lead-ins, and hinted starters, capable of firing the gun at the targeted point, throwing that dart right in the middle, smallest area. Sprinting to the finish line, stealing a glance at a neighboring peer's exam to quickly finish yours (even if it meant uncharacteristic cheating) - an unashamed, innate integrity to the self.

It was easy - straightforward, almost - to fall for him. Anyone would have (should have) seen it coming, you included, being on the heavy end of this unbalanced scale - holding up the relationship (What gives? What was in it for him to be with you? Yes, okay. There was that hacking specialty of yours - but he kept coming back -- for seconds, for an actual dinner that first night as he promised he would, for after work beers and midnight texts, for flowers undelivered and for a series marathon on the sofa.) Attraction came first, of course (that spark, those fireworks, butterflies, the whole stupid, laughable lot). He was that guy in the bar, who became that guy in your bedroom. That guy in the doorway and then again that guy in _another_ bar, an arm around you, introducing you to his 'friends.'

 

* * *

 

You were silently thanking God the music in the bar was loud enough to drown out your heartbeats.

(Not that you'd ever been particularly religious. Or in need of, you know, that kind of spiritual support.

But this was all Oliver's doing. This was all Oliver's request. This was entirely, wholly all on Oliver.

Boyfriends. Not quite.

Another red-blooded, young American male you liked and would like to be laid by, very much a resounding, indisputable yes.

(It sounded naked, stark, laid bare, when said in front of Michaela, Laurel and Wes. Those three. Asher couldn't make it, another plus ("Gonna get some cinna-Bon-Bon ta-night!")

And underneath considerable layers of clothes- it was February, grimly noted your sensory system- you yourself felt stripped down.

This was you being, for fuck's sake, _honest._

This was you speaking, spilling out words of truth in front of the three peers you'd had the easiest time in the world to lie to than anybody else on campus.

This was you, confessing your mind's wish, even for a sentence, to secure, to ensure, to definitely ensure that you'd have your way, nothing else, no other preferable way accepted.

And it all came back down to Oliver.

Who else would you break down yourself this much for, really?)

And there you were, left, right, turning to find him. Nervous, without a reason to be (you'd told them your alibi, and Michaela would be the last to crack, scared as she was. You and her, gunners, unified in your lies and mutual unspoken will not to risk your already lost futures, at whatever cost.). Worried, as per your normal state of mind. Uncertain, as the cards were no longer in your favor since that night you'd become involved in this mess.

But there he was, and your heartbeats echoed in your ears now, the music defunct. Those sick beats couldn't save a soul.

(Again, not that you needed, you know, saving.)

 

* * *

 

Attraction was easy. The actual falling was a daredevil gymnastics act.

To realize and let go and admit. To stop yourself from burying what was always going to be found. Splash cold water on your face, hard. Remind yourself to face the truth.

That you loved him.

That you’d fallen into a stupid hole of cliché, the nerd who’d fallen for the handsome, perpetually unavailable, ineligible hot ticket of the city. (Of your life, anyway. He was the first to cross the lines and stepped into you.) How predictable. How very unironic.

And you’d been trying to lie, deny, push him away ever since.

Waited, for him to fail. Counted down time, until you’d proved yourself right, and you seized the chance to literally close the door on him.

_What did I tell you, Oliver, what did I tell you._

And then his arm was around you, the warmth, the weight. His friends laughing, sipping their drinks in front of you. Smiling.

Was this it?

Was this the time--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh.
> 
> god.
> 
> what a finale, eh. 
> 
> We'll carry on, kids. As we always have. I love my boys, and I always will. No matter what happens.
> 
> This chapter has long been in the works. I knew I should have finished before the finale, but personal issues came into play, and then some other stuff.
> 
> (Note: I love, love, love and more than adore the first sentence. It was legitimately a headline of one of the articles in the Scientific American: "The Universe's Oldest Stars Were Late Bloomers.")


	12. incident

You blinked, and the sun’s glare met your eyes.

_Is it that early?_

You felt his lips on your shoulder, cool and slow. Gentle pressure. Small nips. His arms on your bare back.

You raised your head from the pillow. You’d slept facedown last night, head spinning and mind lured into a whirl. He’d followed you back down on the bed, clothes shredded, hands ready and heart unsteady.

Sex with him was never clean, linear. Always a mess, always distangled pieces of memory you couldn’t quite put back together. Moments. Breaths. Familiar odors that were stuck in your mind. The little noises he made when your lips hit the right spots. The moans you made when _his_ lips hit the right spots.

The blurred darkness. Pleasure in the confusion, the disintegration of senses.

“Morning,” he whispered, chin on your arm. His voice echoed against your skin, and you smiled. Involuntarily.

This morning with him wasn’t your first.

And yet. Low hum, vibrato of that tenor voice on skin. His hair ungelled and all in its rumpled gloriousness—strands that stood out as if they were on their own compass, his lips a tiny bit swollen—that softness on yours that you’d longed for the taste of—his eyes a burning chocolate brown.

His neck.

Well, you might have gone too far last night.

Red marks. Tongue and teeth and moans. You’d told him to turn on his back, and started on his neck. He started moaning, and you saw no point in stopping.

“Morning,” you replied, an arm resting on your pillow, and a hand reached out to cup his cheek. Drew him closer. Lips pressed onto his.

Sweet, and you wanted to ask—that age-old question, that cliché question, that question the ten-year-old, shivering Oliver standing in the (not-so-figurative) closet hiding from his cousins during a hide-and-seek game had been longing to ask: _Where have you been all my life?_

This wasn’t a high point in your life. No, it couldn’t have been. Not that you hadn’t had boyfriends before. Hookups. One night stands. There were some. Few, rare, infrequent, but definitely some.

But you (statistically, illogically, maddeningly) had a tendency for falling for those so-called “bad guys.” Dark, tall, and handsome—the generic appealing specimen, yes, but he’s got to be the him with a way with words. Smooth, so he’d leave you gaping, your eyes staring into his and forgetting the reason (or, more accurately put the excuse) you’d told yourself for stepping into this bar in the first place. Charming, until you’d lost him on where he stopped being real and you started believing in easy words slipped out of foul tongues and cologned air. Fast, so he’d have disappeared, vanished, by the time your mind had reset its center of reason and alerted your brain to where you stood (or supposed to stand, anyway).

_They’ve ‘em. And you always fall for ‘em._

Even in films. Even in stories. Even in songs.

Because they were attractive. Because they were appealing. Because they were the tired, desperate, fed-up mind’s last and simple resort to park. Because they’d eat you up, swallow you in and spit you back out and you’d still have a night to remember.

(a night you’d drunk yourself silly to forget. Because who was that guy? Who was that guy then and who was this guy now?)

Because they existed.

Because a double-shot glass of tequila and staggering out of bars were a no brainer combination. Because you’d follow, you’d laugh, and then he’d stay.

Dozens of shots (Maker’s Manhattan somewhere in the lot), and this one did stay. ( _Is_ staying. Now. Here. Beside you. On the bed. Hand brushing his hair back. Probably running over legal jargon in his head, and ways to distract you in parallel processing lanes.)

And Connor.

Your mind nudged you the minute your eyes met.

He was one of them.

And you'd jumped, in denial. Jumped into this when the door closed and those lips introduced themselves to yours for the first time. Those hands brushed this skin. And burned it. Those eyes surveyed this body and devoured it.

That voice captured this heart and stole it.

This wasn’t a high point in your life, not even the peak.

Meeting Connor Walsh was no accident—he’d made that clear, but subsequent visits (consequential of your first hacking job well done) were bumps in your personal timeline, intended accidents by design that edged you out of the comfort zone (to stay away from _them,_ from these guys), kiss by kiss.

You started falling, and he (it seemed to you) saw no point in stopping.

You were probably easy to read, you blank chalkboard, you transparent face. You were a straight line, and he was the wild card.

Dates happened. Dinners, take outs, hours on the couch.

Late night wines, and he was still here.

Just as he was now.

You’d refused to believe. You’d lied to yourself, and for once in your life, you (firmly and truly believed that you) were right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back from the dead???!!  
> No, I'm still very much alive, but juggling multiple things at once now. And I was very much hoping to write from this one line that I got inspired by in a Scientific American article (this fic is not sponsored by said magazine at any cost), but I couldn't! And then. Weeks. You know.
> 
> Got sick. Still on hold. Working on my report (cheated on it a bit to write this!!!) and some other things at the same time.
> 
> Saw a Shonda Rhimes tweet, and was reminded of my project. Just sitting down and plunking it out! And the words did flow, thank God. They did. And I'm never leaving you while I still can write, dear keyboard.


	13. abend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ("abend" is a software term-ish. referring to malfunction, abrupt loss)

You kissed his cheek, and you told yourself you would never not miss those lips.

It was morning, Thursday. Light had broken through the windows in his bedroom, streamed in--because you'd forgotten to close the curtains last night. (Trivial details like that. One would think you'd have gotten used to this place by now. Asher's constantly throwing the "You two moved in together already?" phrase in your face. Even in those so-called sacred, hallowed halls of the Pennsylvania courthouse. You'd smirk, neglect to answer (as rightfully would be your choice to), and whipped out whatever documents it was concerning the Case of the Week to study. Prep, like you needed it. But there's a considerable number of actions, moves, gestures you'd done out of character lately - even Michaela'd caught on.

You hadn't told any of them about this yet. (Not that they needed to know. The ridiculous chunks of your personal life you'd had to shred to them, for fuck's sake, for "the good of the group." You'd relay words--messages, lingering thoughts that made themselves at home in your head--to those you trusted. To those you felt you could - and you saw no reason not to - be yourself with. The remaining four in the Keating Five were neither of those two.

Not Michaela, no.)

This, being Oliver. This, being the state of affliction you two were caught in. A shock to the system, a jolt in the nerves, a big bang to the otherwise idle universe (otherwise, re: on the subject of Night X, which Oliver was not, and would never be, involved in nor privy to).

This, being the utmost undeserving (yes, you _are_ dramatic. So. What? You had your reasons. You had your justification. You had your cause. Hell, you had an entire monologue to accompany this scene you'd never thought to play. To someone else, maybe. In an alternate, skewed timeline of reality, unlikely. But this was the current. This was the present. This was what had happened, and had continued to happen. _Is_ happening. His present. Your present. Ours. Dim the lights and call you off the stage. You weren't ready - you never had been (Who would be?). The fact had sprung on you like that shadow lurking behind you which had conveniently refused to show itself, until now. Like the hand reaching out to grab your ankle in the dark. A sneak attack, that jostled your snow globe of a world into a perpetual snow storm.), utterly unexpected tragedy.

This, being fate's doing of creating a rift between you and him. A test? But you'd always aced tests. You had decided, your mind locked onto him, that you were going to stay.)

He blinked, and looked back at you. Eyes wide and empty. They had been, these past few days. Letting the news sink into him like traces of sand dripping in an hourglass.

(You'd been coming over with food. Cleaning up the apartment. Sitting with him. Being here. Just. Being. Beside him. It was up to him when to push forward, when to continue, when to - you wouldn't term it 'restart' but - resume his life (you wouldn't intervene. You wouldn't dare.)

Which was visibly seeping out of him, day by day.)

Time slipped, and time slid.

Crumbled, grounded into minuscule grains of dust.

You breathed, you lived. And it wasn't until an event of this scale struck you down that time turned tangible to you.

Well, it _was_. Ticks of the clock, numbers changing on digital displays of devices, days transformed into nights. Sunrises and sunsets. The spectacle of dawn (pinks, reds, oranges) and the mystery of dusk (blacks and greys).

And you let it pass. Let time pass. Minutes, seconds, and hours. Days went by and events unrecorded. (As if you were the sort of person to commit to an activity as mundane as writing (God forbid) diary entries.) These details that occurred - the type of coffee you had on Tuesday afternoon, the film you saw the middle of last month. The price of lunch you had yesterday. The joke from an episode of the Thornbirds Oliver was laughing about three days ago. Who'd think to write down minute details like that? Life's priority was focusing on the present, the now, and on moving on, moving forward, looking ahead - who'd think to glance back to the past?

(Yes, yada yada. There's the saying: the past had molded you to the you today, all that shit jazz fest. (Jazz. No, you were impartial.) But when there's agenda items and meeting times and vibrating of phones of texts and alerts and blog posts and pictures sent. Files and documents and evidence you needed to collect. Who'd bother to keep up?)

(This little act, buying a blue gel pen or turning the key in a door's lock, you'd return to tomorrow. Maybe not tomorrow, but the immediate future. Foreseeable. What had to be done for the act itself spoke for its insignificance.)

Yet it's hitting you as you stared at those glazed eyes - how _wrong_ you were.

They mattered.

Every little last bit.

Your present (or present within that particular moment - or period - of time, anyway) self insisted, warranted, vouched he could speak for his future self, when you very much were aware you couldn't.

You couldn't predict your feelings, three days ahead, much less three hours, based on what you were feeling now.

We lose time all the time, and they kept telling you "time would fly. Time would go by faster than you think.", to which you'd turned a deaf ear.

These hours? 24 in a day, 30 in a month. Of course they wouldn't fly by. They couldn't just _fly by._ (There's sleepless nights and tossing on the bed. Mornings woken up too early and nights gone on to bed too late. Wouldn't those have to pass by first? In no way could they just fly by. Fly was swift. Fly was fleeting, brief. The sound of the word itself escaped you.)

We lose time all the time, seconds slipped by and you didn't think to recall.

We lose time all the time, and you'd never felt invisible grains of sand slipping through the gaps between your fingers faster than they did now.

Not that the worst was going to happen to him - you'd prayed, helpless. But since then. By now. Within the space of then and now. His time was significant. His time was your time.

You brushed his hair back, calm, and you remembered an early morning like this, when you'd woken him up, your lips on his shoulder, red marks he'd gifted you with the night before still warm on your neck.

He'd cupped your face then, pliable hand, and kissed you good morning.

Supple lips, you'd missed them. Stole a quick one or two kisses these days, but nothing further. Had to hold back, restrain.

But you wouldn't miss a detail.

It's too late, the realization, as they tended to come (delayed, gloriously delayed)- it's too late. But it happened, and you'd noted in your heart to remember.

Remember the conversation you had yesterday. The reason he smiled. The word he used to describe the salad you made (the extent of your culinary skills, shut up.). The way he was looking at you now.

What's lost was lost. Gone, and not returned. In the past, and useless to glance back.

What's lost was lost. But there's still today to gain. This minute to start. This second barely left to spare.

Now you'd begin. Now you'd remember.

Now you'd take care of each detail.

And you wouldn't let him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there it is: the scientific american article about humans mistakenly underestimating the value of the present's mundaneness.
> 
> this has been three weeks in the making.
> 
> and yes, it intentionally is a continuity of the previous chapter.


	14. blood

You'd tried to wash him off of you- the stains, the odor, the contact.

Wandering hands that nearly ripped your shirtsleeve apart.

It'll make a nice memory, he said, and you heard that tiny little sound of his lips christening the skin at your shoulder.

Kissed it, tasted it as if it was his first time.

It's the same hallucination film characters had when they washed blood off their hands. Turn on that tap, water pouring.

The red was gone, the grime rid of, and the hands clean, clear. Reverted. Back to normal, back to the previous state. Back to what was before.

Except it wasn't.

The memory lingered- the images playfully tapping you at the back of your shoulder.

The sounds. The pressure. The friction.

You hadn't worn that shirt in ages- the one he nearly tore off, oh yes.

Not since that night.

And Connor, being Connor, the sex magnet that he was- had probably rid of you way before you decided to rid of him.

That shirt lay tucked, neatly folded, at the furthest corner of your dressing drawers.

The taste of him.

You couldn't.

He's murmuring words at your ears again, sweet stories about dates that would never take place. Dinners that would (more than likely) end up as a front for him to a good fuck & breakfast at yours.

He stayed over sometimes, the bastard. Half-baked breakfast and eating up more of your favorite cereal than you’d ever like him to.

It’s tough, they say. It’s hard, tearing yourself away from someone. It’s impossible, undoable. You’d slammed the door, didn’t let him finish. Pushed him out.

And still he was here.

As if he’d never left.

That shirt used to be a favorite of yours, and he knew that. Wore it to impress him, if you were to admit, and he knew that.

Now it’s taboo. It’s illegal. It’s hidden. A ticking time bomb that turned you inside out, even at a finger’s graze on the fabric.

You’d lost that shirt the night he had his hands on you wearing it.

Quick sips of wine. Spaghetti dinner that wasn’t really much, and he was on top of you.

Closed your eyes, and you’d see him again.

That face, that smirk, that complacent voice.

How could you ever forget.

Your fault, Oliver. Your weakness. Your vulnerable spot.

That you remembered. That he was here. That you’d let him in, knowing you could never shut him out completely.

Knowing yourself, and acting against your best interests.

Trusting him more than you trusted yourself.

Let him lead you on. Followed his breadcrumbs.

Forgot your own path.

You thought of the shirt every now and then—popped up in your mind, and you’d dismissed it.

Tried to, anyway.

The blood was on your hands.

The water was running.

People saw a tailored suit, a pressed shirt.

People saw a calm, put-together Oliver.

They hadn’t seen you inside. The you who was dying to throw away this shirt that was once your beloved. The you who longed more than anything to burn it and your memories associated with it.

They saw clean hands, and so should you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I miss my boys. I've really missed my boys.
> 
> (the drabble above is a revert back to their first 'break-up' moment)
> 
> [full study term mode at the moment. This is an unofficial return. Otherwise, I am officially packed with work. AHHHH ALMOST THERE, BABY.]


	15. us

And you’re watching him there on the couch, crouched in front of his laptop. Sounds of rapid fingers typing on the keyboard like he’s in some invisible race against time that you weren’t privy to.

Hackers. Wasn’t that what they were supposed to do?

Fast typers and all that. You’d leaned back, hand on your hair—that gelled black mess gone astray (and you wished it had been because of him, because of you two.), an arm on the couch. He’s making it through now, one firewall at a time, one screen after another, your knight in shining, uh, sweater.

“The plaintiff’s really good-looking,” he said, and you looked up from the couch. Eyes met his, heart sank low. (Who were you to judge him? That little itch in the back of your mind? That wasn’t jealousy. Only the slightest tingling of your senses at an occurrence of an anomaly. Because. Because when had you ever seen him flirt, for fuck’s sake?

Made eyes at someone? Even lift a corner of his lips because of some guy…

…okay, you hadn’t exactly…thought about that. Yet.

Oliver. Flirting. Commenting on the third, nonexistent party in the room, who couldn’t, honest to God, be more irrelevant to your situation (Work? No. This? Excuse to call him up and really, truthfully, wholeheartedly, back up your “I need you,” with actual evidence? Yes. A loud, sustaining, echoing, clear yes.) right in front of you.

No. Couldn’t. Care. Less.

You’d seen the guy, six, seven hours at most each day, locked in that court room, witnessing Bonnie’s feeble attempts to defend that girl. He was handsome, sure. Striking. Probably in the same league with Matt Bomer and the like, in the Bottomless Eyes department, but bygones were bygones.

What was your current was inches away from you, and not mildly interested.

Body language. Arms close to his body, shoulders on guard, eyes all business and lips nowhere near yours.

You looked away, chin down—that gesture that your sister had (not-so-affectionately) termed Con’s sulking—managing a retort.

That seemed to take a bite out of him.

An elephant in the room, a cloud of pink smoke, an awkward silence.

He’d turned away from the screen, eyes on you when you least expected and mouth dropped open.

“Some might say the same about us.”

The last word almost rang in your ear.

Him and you.

One, singular. Together.

Termed by him.

_Can you imagine?_

It’s not like you should get excited, oh no. Pop champagne and celebrate. Not with this lot. Not with him—not…

_But have you ever—_

You never called me back, they used to say, those boys you slept around with in high school. University. Brian, James and Thomas. Among others. Among those who were double shot drinks and weights locked down on top (or the bottom) of you on nights when you were sober and afternoons you were thirsty.

I’m busy, you’d say to them. Collectively, individually, whatever.

Hadn’t got the time, didn’t want to bother. You’d never been jilted. Not one of those made-cynical because of a backstory type.

You just didn’t want to. Period.

Why color in the lines when you could draw your own borders?

And then it sank into you—that he may be— _still_ be, goddamnit, heart—considering the idea of you two, after all. The union of, an intersection.

He was the first, no questions asked.

He was the first, when the word had started (cliché as that may sound) to make sense. When the short, crisp sound of that _s_ was as appealing as it was. When the one, lightweight syllable amplified uplifting, why the word insisted on echoing as it did in your ear.

But your brain went back to work, the bells and whistles, and oh.

So _that’s_ what he meant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh. god.  
> good. lord.  
> I needed a break.
> 
> THE STRESS.
> 
> while (true)  
> {  
> Console.WriteLine("Connor and Oliver 4ever.");  
> }
> 
> they're my home. they're my heart.  
> and they're in my thoughts, occasionally.
> 
> i need to
> 
> while (school != over)  
> {  
> //stay sane, goddamnit.  
> }
> 
> (ps. Engineer-in-training here. Almost there. woot woot.   
> not a developer like Oliver, but close.  
> tl;dr. we do a fair share of programming.)


	16. this

“Hey.”

“What.”

“This is new.”

“This… _what_?”

You asked a question this time, voice raised an octave (though not in the slightest tone of annoyance—more of ironic curiosity), and he covered your hand with his.

(Warm.)

His coffee was next to yours, moccachino to flat white. You were sitting across from each other in that little café close to your place, the one where nobody else ever bothered to go.

(Not that it wasn’t popular. This was the place. This was your place. And you’d rather there be the least number of reminders of law school here as possible.

 

You couldn’t control the weather.

You couldn’t control people.

You couldn’t control life.

 

But you could keep secrets. Set boundaries. Draw lines. And this was one of those places.)

“Coffee,” he replied, simply, thumb lightly rubbing the back of your palm. Not so coincidentally, this black hole in the pit of your stomach started growing again, growling, ravenous. Almost promising to consume all that’s there.

You reached at your cup with your free hand, and tapped it to his, still on the table, half drunk. “You mean you’ve not had _coffee_ before, really? I find it har—“

And his hand was on your cheek—seconds before you finish that piece of feigned innocent fun—his lips followed suit, darted in more directly to yours.

Light hint of chocolate underlying espresso’s darkness. His lavender aftershave. That pool of heat radiating from him.

“Con, come _on_.”

Endless lines of legal texts you had to dig through. Logic tests and case studies. Coffee at Keating’s place at 1 am. And still, those three words, his mock-exasperated voice, that face hovering so close in front of yours, still. You’d say it was all worth it.

You gave him a chuckle, took a sip from your own cup.

“Got a kiss from you, didn’t I?” Now he cocked an eye at you. “Must’ve worked. Ever the charmer, that’s me.” Gave him a shrug to complete the whole act, and he was shaking his head, finger at his glasses’ leg.

“I don’t just take anyone here,” you pressed your lips to his palm—the one yet resting atop yours. “At least you can have that.”

Pink dots formed on his cheeks, but he shrugged back, free hand grabbing his drink for a sip and placing it back on the table.

“Exactly what I was trying to say,” he replied.

“Which was…”

“ _Connor_.”

“Is that a warning? Is it getting serious?” you were squeezing his hand. “Should I kiss you first this time?”

His skin was the shade of a tomato sauce, rather, this time.

“This is new,” he started again, and continued, not giving you a chance to interrupt, “Us having coffee. Chatting. Being here.”

He made a point of staring into your eyes right then, and the black hole expanded. Reached its peak. Engulfed all that was in your stomach.

“This is new.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 29 days.
> 
> Fingers crossed.


	17. loop

C,

You know I miss you.

I've missed your smile. Your laughs. That quirk of the lips. Those eyebrows that irritate me to no end. I've missed you standing in the doorway, arm resting on the wall. Asking, when am I going to be finished? All that coding, long hours, and no sleep. The if's and the else's and the while's, you used to tease me. 

"When is my loop till forever with you?" you asked, and, all's fair in love and object oriented languages, but foolish me found that cheesy rhetoric the sweetest of all.

You know I miss you, hanging around, coffee in your breath and storms in your heart. (Don't lie. We've made it long past that stage when staring into each other's eyes is fumbling awkwardness and testing uncharted territory.

We had to set sail sometime, you and I. Ran ourselves aground and had you rock the boat until we drowned.

Didn't regret any of it, if you asked me.

No, not even the bit with the liquorice. You know what you did there.

Don't blame it on me.)

You know I miss you.

I'm sitting here, one a.m., lights off, writing away like a raving lunatic (a grotesque exhibition not unlike that of a hopeless, pining lover.) typing. Recalling memories of you. Us. Light. Life. Those few shared worry-free hours, away from reality's curfews. You to your books, your files, your papers, your case. And I to my screen- this business of making something out of nothing, untangling the world's ambiguity, uncertainty, complexity through lines of languages written to curb its wonders in such a way.

You know I miss you.

Like I shouldn't have. Like I'm not supposed to. I got my heart broken. I deserved it. We were ever going to last for so long.

Don't kiss me and tell me it's alright. Don't climb into bed and rest your head on my shoulder and talk me into calming down.

You're not a lawyer yet, darling.

And then you'll argue, I expect it, no less. If you were here, that is. If you were here.

But you're not, and you bet your next cup of coffee I'd never let you know this exists.

Fragile patches of my weaker self. Snippets from the stream of unconsciousness. Curious, unedited, frank.

A door closed after we met. This room. Its loud slamming. The packed up mess that was you and I. 

That door's closed now, still. And I'm in this room, idiot that I am, watching it while I type.

There's the paint. White, plain. You'd think I half expect something to happen. Something to crawl out. Something to burst that locked door open. Something to save it from the shut down.

Something to save _me_ from the shut down.

I shouldn't think. I'm not the melancholy type. You'd blame me for my sentiments. Make fun of them, even. And instead of tears, I'm here shedding words on what was once an empty Microsoft Word doc with that nasty blinking mark. 

You're gone now. I've shut you out. Saved myself from becoming the one who gets saved. By what, I don't know. 

But here is where it ends, Connor. Here is where it's supposed to end.

Supposed is the key word, you say.

And I intend to keep it that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10 Days.
> 
> Hold on tight, and we might survive this storm.


	18. leave

There's a beat.

And then there's silence.

The first minutes, the hours. The tiny period when you started to feel for someone.

There's a beat.

There's a bell. Ringing, and silent. Alarms, and stillness.

And your mind's telling you- no. It's new. It's clean, it's safe. Let's keep it that way. Let's do, why don't we. He's in the door and on the bed and out your room.

He's numbing, bitter Makers Manhattan washed down with sweet cherries and the taste of the unknown.

He's noise, and sound, and motions, and light.

And you'd missed it, hypocrite. You'd claimed you didn't, but you'd craved it, you did. Admit it, you did.

He's a bullet train, crashing into your subconscious, a bright blue amidst the dull grey.

He's the sun, the storm, and the rain. More so, the rain. Hurricanes, typhoons, wrecked houses, lost souls. A disruption, a cause, a literal natural disaster.

You don't know him, said your brain, your mind, your conscience. Sensible as always, rational, reasonable, logical.

You've only just met.

But he bursts in and he's there. He annexes, and he stays. You'd closed the door, locked it and thrown away the keys. But he's in. No questions.

You looked at him, glanced up, and he smiled. Poor heart taking the smile as indulgence and learning nothing from past mistakes, poor heart.

So you wanted to know him- you wanted to figure him out, because what it was- is, to be- wasn't going to be just this. Or maybe it could, and you'd have no objections to that.

Hey, play it safe, play it cool. Keep your head level and your mind focused, and no one's getting out of this scarred.

Trouble was, you're pulling yourself out, dragging. Grunting. Asking. Begging. Hoping.

(It must be infatuation. Must. What else?)

And then he slid through, and your sand castle crumbled to grains.

He said your name, once, twice. Comical, and then not. It's been a while since you'd felt this way- cliche peculiarity, you knew. That overused sentiment, that disposable, instant regenerated feeling recycled over and over in rom coms.

And don't blame me for this, you're pleading your mind. Just don't. I'm lost in this maze, much as you.

I wish I'd think but a little, but it's hardly in my nature not to.

You'd wished you knew how it felt, those lines in novels and films. How your name never quite felt as whole as when you hear it from his lips. In his voice.

But now you did. Understand.

He's saying it. Simple, one syllable. Or two. Then you're smiling, and you'd never heard your name that way. Not from him, not tuned to his tone. Not before.

You told yourself to stop. Never. Leave. End.

(Stop. Don't remember his odor, don't playback the moment you fell and the moment you regretted falling. The moment you wanted to disappear. Because God must have been laughing at you.

Him, really?

And you?

Life's only got so many exits you could take. So many people you could meet. So many moments you could be trapped in.

But you didn't deserve this. Honestly. He's not for you- he won't be. How could it last, when you knew full well it wouldn't. When you knew it got started only to stop.

With the situations you two were both in, this was an inconvenience.

You wanted to give up on him, find a flaw, back away, forget. He's acting like he's outside your loop, and then sprang back in when you least expected him to.

Think, overthink, reflect. And there'd be a day when he turns round, acknowledged you, and tells you it's been nothing but friendship.

Take it if you could. Leave it now, let this blister, let it bloom.

Let him destroy it at needlepoint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unrequited crushes.  
> be gone, this. be gone.  
> (let me move on, damn it.)
> 
> Weirdos are back. Happy Season Premiere, my loves.
> 
> x


	19. look

"Why are you looking at me like I'm the only source of hope in the world?"

"Because," you sighed, eyes to the ceiling- this close to wringing your hands in the air, "because."

Because you goddamn are the only source of hope in the world, Ollie. That's all it is. When I said what I said, I meant what I meant. No double meanings, no underlying subtleties, no backhand arguments against judges in a courtroom. Nothing of the kind.

The world's on my shoulders. Stress's pumping in place of adrenaline, and that force fed caffeine a few hours before refused to kick in.

There's just one thought- one single, simplest, most minuscule thought- I had to see you.

I'm tired, you understand. Life's washed over me and the tides only keep getting steeper. Hours slip by, and papers have decided to bury me in.

Michaela's going on about something, but my brain's shut off completely. Laurel is talking to Waitlist, and apparently waving some papers around. Asher's being... you know, Asher. 

But none of it's helping the case.

We toil - ten, twelve hours a day I'm spending with them weirdos, arguing and negotiating and forgetting the outside world.

And you're asking- you're seriously asking- why I'm staring at you the way I do?

Because you're the oasis in this wasteland.  
Because you're my light at the end of the tunnel.  
Because you're my words when I've run out of ink.  
Because you're my refuge when the world comes crashing down.  
Because you're the only grey in the pitch blackness.  
Because you're the reward after a long hard day.  
Because you're that glass of iced tea I want to drink all in.  
Because you're that song I can play to this finally cleared head of mine.

Because your eyes light up my world.  
Because your smiles tickle my cold heart.  
(I've never known the meaning of smiling with your eyes until you- really, I've not.)  
Because your voice runs heat down my throat like that first sip of vodka.  
Because your lips makes me forget how to breathe.  
Because your words cause ripples in my head.

Because you are, Oliver. Because you are.

Just because. Nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come join me on Unrequited Crush Island. I'm enjoying my stay.


	20. lurch

_Fuck_ , went that little voice inside your head, _I thought you were_ done _with him._

And you were, honestly, you were. God knows how _done_ you were with Connor Walsh. Same old story, same old heartbroken Oliver.

Falling in love first, caring first, and never winning.

Promising yourself a guaranteed loss, didn’t you? (And you had to fall, had to slip. Had to forget. How many times had it been? How many heartaches -  how many…reoccurrences. This wasn’t a fun déjà vu. This wasn’t living out _Edge of Tomorrow_. This was your heart. This was your soul. This was your life.

And you’re doing a pretty good job of making a spectacular mess out of it right about now.)

Everything was on track, Oliver. Didn’t we talk. Didn’t we agree on this. Didn’t we say.

Let’s leave. Forget and go. Pack up and depart. Just like that. Snap your fingers. Easy. I can do it. You can do it. _We_ can do it.

So let’s do it.

Why not?

It wasn’t though you and him had circles of friends that overlapped. It wasn’t though you and him frequented the same bars, the same restaurants. Were involved in the same profession. Worked in the same office, in the near vicinity of each other, even. None of the above.

But a client happened to ask you to meet at a particular coffee shop, and you showed up, camel blazer, denim shirt and jeans (keeping it casual). She sat herself down opposite to you. You had your laptop opened, and for the next fifteen minutes disappeared into that familiar work-related bliss.

You were safe. You were right there, and in it, and so into it, and she was listening. Going over the points, ranking the concepts, rattling off key takeaways, you know the type.

You took a sip of your latte, and she nodded.

“We’ll get back to you,” red lips spoke, and the woman in the black dress stood up to leave. You’d barely opened your mouth to say goodbye, when you heard those loud, distinctive laughs.

You glanced back, and there they were.

At a two-person table sitting opposite from each other—the girl in the grey bodycon dress, and the guy in his chocolate, white-striped shirt.

Michaela placed a hand over her mouth, eyes wide in surprise, head turned a little over to your side. She had her back to you, but you’d recognize those eyes anywhere.

More than that was him.

Connor was sitting directly opposite you, from a distance, the bastard. He raised his eyebrows high, lips straight, eyes alive with that spark of recognition when your eyes met his.

You raised a hand, just to say hi.

There were no smiles this time. Not on your side.

(Play it cool.)

You turned back then. And your heart lurched. Dropped. Teetered on the cliffs of your sanity.

What the _hell_ was that, Oliver?

For God’s sake.

Keep it to yourself. Quit this. Stop.

It wasn’t me, you wanted to say.

I glanced at him, that’s all. I looked at him. I didn’t stare. I glanced, and I turned back. The interaction was a mere ten seconds round of polite, societal-acceptable greetings.

How ridiculous. How stupid. To have felt so much in so little time. And then you started thinking. That little voice nagged in your head again.

_What did I look like, putting up my hand like that? Did he think I’m an idiot?_

Oh, Oliver.

When would you ever learn.

He’d never think, the way you do. Reflecting and rewinding and blowing this all out of proportion.

Those eyebrows. This hand.

It was a glance, nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back to when it was still awkward between them.
> 
> a chance meeting, who would have thought.


	21. loss

You know how I got over it?

I remember only the good bits.

(Writing it here. Physically. Stark black ink. Reminds me that it’s real. You happened. _We_ happened.

There was an us.

The word’s short, insignificant. Probably got lost somewhere in reality’s shadows, but it’s there.)

I look at you now. In front of me. Your eyes – so bare, so apologetic. Those lovely browns void of smoke. What’s behind them staring back at me so directly. So intently.

 _I’m sorry_ – you didn’t need to say it, but your eyes did their job.

They were begging me, all right.

_I’m sorry, please take me back._

_I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it._

I could sit here and iterate through the set of sentences your eyes were to convey to me, but I won’t.

You’re standing there, feet close together, torso halfway turned to my room (which was no longer yours, I’m not sorry.)

And I just couldn’t bear the absurd staring contest you’d initiated.

It was over.

I’d acknowledge that. Me first. Why not?

I wish you’d acknowledge it too.

Remember the good bits, that’s what I say.

The first time we met.

The taste of that drink (which was way too strong, if you ask me.)

The smile in your eyes.

How my heart swelled – and flopped – and swelled – and I’d refuse to admit it until after the second time you went down on me (Yes. I _will_ miss that, Connor. _Asshole._ )

(Promptly after which every eloquent phrase of ‘I’m a hopeless piece of shit,’ occurred to me, and rang so much in my head – disturbed my conscience, blocked my thoughts, burned my mind.

You’re a fucking intoxicant.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for stopping by, reading, reviewing!
> 
> with love and ristretto,
> 
> x
> 
> PS. feel free to drop by my tumblr @dolanx to chat/drop off prompts :D this drabble collection is open to any & all topics! <3


End file.
